Even more kinky stuff from the weekend…

August 3, 2015

needlepoint

Muggy, misty morning.

I live my life like every day’s my last day. I live like death is just here, just beyond my right shoulder, grinning at me in the dark. It’s been that way since Paris, all those years ago. I’ve lived each moment as if I’d stolen it from death. I’m a feckin’ life thief par excellence…!

I visited a professional dominatrix once, who did some things with needles that she said would “break me”, but they didn’t, although the pain I endured was indescribable. I transcended that pain, became high on it, so high I eat starlight out of the very heart of the feckin’ universe.

Her lounge was an eye opener: oil paintings, aspidistras and wall-to-wall bookshelves. Her dungeon or playroom was actually upstairs. She wore impossibly high-heeled black patent stilettos and elbow length black leather gloves. She told me she had once been a medical secretary but came across a bondage website by accident and thought, ‘I could do that!’ She assured me the wicked looking needles were sterile, before she set to work.

I had acupuncture once and hardly felt the needles being placed in me. But these needles I did feel. Red hot pin points. As she placed them she talked to me, her voice soft and low. ‘I love rainy days,’ she said. ‘Empty shops, the smell of fresh coffee, old books…I always find beauty in things that are odd. I love imperfections…’

I bit down on my tongue until I could taste blood. She deliberately kept me erect as she worked the sharp points of the needles into tender flesh.

She said, ‘People may forget me, forget what I’ve said. But they’ll never forget what I’ve done to them. Not ever…’

I went beyond her, beyond the sound of her voice, the gentle movement of her fingers and the red-hot agony of her needles. I may have told her, ‘I don’t make poetry. I take words and drown them in feelings…’ I’m not sure if I did or not. But if I did speak it was from between tightly clenched teeth.

And as I swallowed starlight and stardust and the stuff of countless suns, I realised she was the moon. She was the moon shining in my darkness.

‘I’m not made of sugar and spice,’ she whispered. ‘Shall I stop? Will you beg? Scream your safe word…?’

Somehow I managed to say, ‘You must do what truly pleases you, Madam. That and nothing more.’ Or at least I think I did. I can’t be certain. Not of anything.

‘Oh, what a brave little soldier you are…’

‘Love marks, and marks…’ Words were a jumble in my mouth.

‘I’ve never known anyone take fifty needles,’ she said. ‘You’ve taken seventy-five. I only have ten left. But, oh, I will place them well, don’t you worry. I will place them so each one feels like hell…’

‘Life is beautiful as long as it consumes you.’ I was so totally apart from everything by then. A truly transcendental moment.

‘So brave, so quiet…’ Points of fire igniting in my groin. ‘See how deep they go. You wouldn’t think it possible, would you?’

I know I resemble a bloody steel hedgehog where she’s been at work. I don’t want to look. My eyes are half-closed, head averted.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ve had so much fun placing all of those. But now I’m going to have even more fun tugging them out…One by one.’ She giggled. ‘Such violent delights have such violent ends, don’t they?’

The sound of her voice and the fire of those needles was a mantra that induced a wonderful fugue state. I became one with everything. Individuality melting away. Ego dissipating…

Last Friday evening swinging friends arrived from Southampton and the midlands. Saturday we role played, nine of us. For the entertainment and delectation of the ladies, two of the guys “spit roasted” me on the living room floor in the afternoon. Sunday we went out for breakfast, and before lunch Karol, big-boned, freckled, red-headed, took me into the conservatory and used me roughly for an hour or so. They all left very tired, late Sunday afternoon.

And now work calls to me, that old familiar siren song…

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